Through the open doorway to the bedroom, her bottom is visible, her legs rising to meet her spread cheeks as she kneels on the bed, with her head down.

She is dressed as a schoolgirl, a uniform of his instruction rather than her own desire. Dressed as a schoolgirl, the skirt lifted, the white knickers yanked down, waiting to be examined. Waiting to be punished, with the strap across her behind and the thick nozzle in her rectum as the soapy water rushes into her bowels.

Examined and punished. And then buggered: held down firmly on the bed as he spreads her cheeks wide and inserts himself firmly into her bum. Looking down in pleasure as she slowly spreads for him, as his cock gently violates the tight privacy of her bum, as it spears into the hot vaselined tightness of her backside.


A naughty schoolgirl, inexperienced, waiting to be taught. He hardens at that thought; of teaching her, of taking her through it, step by embarrassing step. Combining her humiliation with a gentleness that makes her eager for more, mixing discipline with arousal until she’s as wet as she is sore.

Teaching her. The examination first: having to come dressed in the uniform, self-conscious and embarrassed, aware of the too-short skirt, the too-juvenile clothes, the too-tight knickers. And of the wetness between her legs as she looks at the sight of herself in the mirror, dressed like that.

The examination. Standing there in front of him as he talks gently to her, feeling the way she does at the doctor’s, that sense of the necessity of it, and of the submission that comes of that necessity.

He sits on the chair; she stands, close to him. He pulls her in closer, putting his hand firmly on her behind to move her, resting it on one cheek, kneading that buttock through the material of the skirt as he shifts her forward.

He talks to her about the examination, and about what he intends, lifting her skirt in back to expose her knickers as he talks. She’s aware of the mirror behind her, knows he’s enjoying the sight of the “target,” and hangs her head in shame at the thought of what he sees. Sees the bulge in his trousers as she lowers her eyes.


She knows in a few minutes her panties will be down, and she’ll be across his knees to have her temperature taken. She’s masturbated many times thinking about that, of the sensation as her panties are lowered, as she watches him shake the thermometer down and dip it into the jar of Vaseline.

Vaseline, because of course he’ll take her temperature rectally, make her lie there like an overgrown child, with the thermometer protruding from her behind, like a little flagpole from between her as yet unreddened cheeks.

They haven’t discussed it, but she knows he’ll move the thermometer as she lies there, tickling her bowels with its insertion and withdrawal, examining it’s greasy length each time he removes it, looking for blemishes that warrant a complete examination of her behind.

She knows that this examination is inevitable, and that, once he’s stated its necessity, she’ll have to lift herself from his lap and stand there in front of him and watch as he puts the rubber gloves on his hands. She’ll have to stand there and hold her own skirt up and watch as he puts on the gloves and lubricates his middle fingers in the Vaseline jar.

And then, when he’s finally done with it, and his fingers are shiny with the grease, he’ll send her to kneel on the bed, face in the pillows, behind in the air. Holding her cheeks apart with her own trembling hands, exposing her greased rectum to him, waiting to feel it being penetrated.

Penetrated. First with his finger, while he inserts another finger in front to steady her. And then with the nozzle when its time for the enemas.

And finally, when she’s cleaned out to his satisfaction, with his cock up her behind.



She stands on the platform, waiting for the hot breath of wind that heralds the arriving train, clutching the opened package tightly in her hands.

The wind comes, the train behind it. It blows across her bare legs, lifts the skirt slightly; despite its heat, she shivers, covered in goosbumps, feeling her purchase intruding inside her. Intruding, between her buttocks, spearing into her greased behind as she waits for her train to arrive.


She bought it, as instructed, in a sex shop. A rectal plug, her face hot when she read his instructions, redder still when she stood in the store lifting her selection down from the wall of similar items and carried it to the register.

A rectal plug, small compared to him, but still large enough to make her aware of its presence, of its intrusion. She can’t walk without wobbling as if she’s on her highest heels, but it’s the plug in her ass that makes her shimmy, the firm girth of it pressing against her rectum, stretching her there as she walks.


She bought it in the sex shop, escaped, breathing hard on the street outside after she’d quick-marched herself half a block away from the store, enough away far so that no one would see her outside and recognize her as a customer. Calmed herself and then, once again blushing as she recalled his instructions, made her way to a bathroom, where she unwrapped her purchase, and prepared it for insertion.

“Close the door to the stall,” he wrote, “and stand there, thinking about what I’ll see as I watch you do this. Because I will watch, to see how well my schoolgirl obeys me.”

“Once the door is closed, turn your body so that your behind is towards the door, and then, slowly, lift your skirt for me. Lift it, so that I see your behind come slowly into view. First the undercurves of your buttocks. The sensual part where your behind meets your legs. The sensitive part, the part that will hurt when you sit down because I took great care to spank you there.

“Lift the skirt, letting the full spread of your buttocks come into view. I expect you to practice it before a mirror, your head turned to watch the show I’ll see. Two mounds, tight inside the thin fabric of your knickers – your punishment panties, the ones you only wear when its time for you to think about me, and what I need to do with that part of you.

“When your skirt is raised above your waist in back, stop for a moment, and then get them down to your knees, a quick motion, imagining my fingers inside waistband, my hands yanking them down. Stand there like that, thinking about the embarrassment of being on display, and the uncertainty of not knowing how long you’ll have to display yourself before I lead you on to the next part of your lesson.

“That’s what it is, after all, a lesson for my naughty schoolgirl: a lesson in letting go, a lesson in submission. No ordinary lesson of course; not a course directed only to your mind, but focusing instead on your behind.

“Anal training, and now that you’ve stood there with your underpants down and your behind bared, its time to get the plug out of its wrapping, time to coat it with a thick layer of Vaseline and, having done so, spread your cheeks for me and put it in.


She stands there, in the stall, exposed, nervous at the sounds of others in the bathroom, knowing they can’t see her, knowing that they won’t wonder at what she’s doing, but nervous nonetheless.

She holds the plug in her hand; it shines, greasy from the Vaseline. She looks at its girth, thinner than his cock, thicker than anything that’s gone inside her before, certainly thicker than the occasional finger that’s intruded there. Her behind tightens of its own accord, and she feels it clenching, knows he’ll enjoy that when he’s buggering her, knows he expects her to practice tightening herself there, so that she can milk his cock on her impaled bowels, milk him to orgasm, to the sperm enema she knows she needs to receive.


She bends forward, resting one hand on the lid of the toilet, or rather on the layer of paper she’s put on the seat; his detailed instructions to her on her preparation included a thoughtful consideration of the sanitariness of the situation.

One hand on the lid, the other reaching back, the blunt-headed intruder moving, sliding inbetween her bare bent buttocks (she feels the coldness of the Vaseline there, cannot help but shudder ) and, finally, comes to rest with the head against her arsehole.


A long pause, the wait that precedes impalement. He’s invited her to think about this moment; instructed her to think about it, in fact required that she meditate on it, each time she takes her pants down and masturbates.

“Think about it,” he tells her, “when you climb into bed to fondle yourself. Think about the point in the proceedings when I have you as I want you, on your tummy over the pillows, skirt up, panties down, bum cheeks exposed, rectum lubricated for violation.

“Your ass, about to be buggered. I’ll be gentle of course, but you’ll feel my weight pressing down on you in an ungentlemanly fashion even so, my weight pressing down, concentrated in the shaft that’s slowly entering your behind, spreading your cheeks, impaling you.

“I’ll be sure to look down to enjoy the view,” he tells her, “look down to see your anus stretched round me, look down to see my shaft thrusting in and out, the buggery long, the thrusts deep. I’ll be pressed down on you, my cock in your behind, my hand between your legs, masturbating you as I sodomize your bottom. Tickling you between your legs, making you squirm, making you tense your behind on me and thrust yourself up to get more of my cock into your bowels.”


“More of his cock into my bowels,” she thinks, bending over in the stall, the head of the plug just tickling against her rectum. “More of it up my behind,” she repeats to herself, over and over, as her hand pushes forward and the plug begins to force its way inside.

She is tight there, and entry isn’t easy, but she persists, recalling his instructions, knowing that he expects her to leave the stall with the plug seated in her bum, nestled inbetween her cheeks as she walks to her train, seats herself inside, rides home.

The plug is going in, and it isn’t comfortable, but she persists. Does it to please him, to please herself.

To be a good girl.

For him.

For her Daddy.

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